Skating Metaphors
by titanicavatar
Summary: Yuuri and Victor's domestic eccentricities. New chapter summary: A stupid argument on Valentine's day spikes into a full blown contest of who can annoy the other more.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own Yuri! On Ice.**

 **Warnings: too sweet, fluffier than Makkachin, sappy kbye**

* * *

SKATING METAPHORS

* * *

 **Yuri and Viktor step into Viktor's old apartment, Viktor is flipping out at how oblivious Yuri is. Hilarity ensues.**

* * *

The apartment is as familiar as ever.

Victor puts the key into the hole and twists it, his heart slightly skipping. The door opens with a certain creak, as Makkachin sniffs his way in and snuggles against the closed door that leads to the balcony. The next he can hear are Yuuri's quiet steps into the apartment as he looks around the place.

"Wow, this is so big," he utters in what looked like wonder, "It'll take a week to clean the place up."

Victor laughs at it. He didn't think this was the first thing Yuuri is going to point out. He feels a little nervous for some weird reason, so instead he diverts his attention and reaches out to open the door Makkachin is scratching on. A fresh gust of wind hits his face as the dog woofs in happiness.

"Victor, you have a piano?" Yuuri exclaims again, pulling off the sheet cover and releasing a cloud of dust.

"Yes, I planned to learn... a bit," he replies. He bought the instrument somewhere around last year desperately looking for inspiration, "Of course, I didn't begin - "

He stops to observe Yuuri testing out some of the keys before hesitantly playing out a familiar tune. He asks, "Fur Élise?"

"Th-this is all I know," he chuckles, "Mari Nee-chan taught me, I don't think she knows anything apart from this composition either..."

Well, then thankfully the piano has not been a waste of money within his idea of domestic bliss. Victor's insides rumble again. Suddenly he realises they haven't ever talked about their love except in skating metaphors. Not even during their deep, vulnerable conversations back in Hasetsu.

He watches as Yuuri wipes the dust off the table and picks the shrunken flower out of the vase. It feels strangely symbolic. To be honest, or maybe owing to Victor's rose-tinted imagination, the place Yuuri stood seems to be sunlit, letting out a warm aura amidst the Russian winter. The apartment used to reek of loneliness. And something is new, and changed.

Yuuri moves on to the small bookshelf and then to the showcase full gleaming trophies. He is looking at them with child-like wonder. What an adorable dorky Grand Prix silver-medalist.

"I just hope my place looks half this good..."

Huh?

He has imagined how the apartment will look like once Yuuri moves in. Stickers on the refrigerator, maybe they'll put in individual efforts in preparing their own personal version of pork cutlet bowls, Makkachin - who used to sniff about for a fix and lie curled up at the feet of the sofa before when he could hardly buy time from practice - woofing around with energy as now they can take turns in playing with him. Maybe they can also get him a poodle buddy. Morning coffees won't be lonely anymore. That is, if Yuuri wakes up on time. He has never been an early morning person.

All of a sudden Victor realises that in the midst of imagining around, he has forgotten to officially ask him to move in. And it is unlike Yuuri to just barge into a place, no matter how badly he wanted. Wait... Yuuri wants it, doesn't he?

In any case, he has to ask. _How_ is the real question. Skating metaphor, huh? What can be a possible metaphor for asking your boyfriend to move in?

"Victor?"

Yuuri is staring confusedly at him. He must've spaced out. Victor groans internally. That's it, he is going to make a fool of himself. He bites his smile as Yuuri pulls off his overcoat, folds it and stuffs it near the arm of the couch, buckling up for the cleaning. He can make a fool of himself a hundred times before Yuuri, and it'll still be worth it.

Victor has an idea. He tiptoes towards the piano while Yuuri puts on his mask and plugs in the vacuum cleaner. Victor massages the piano's large body, going as far as tapping on some off-key chords that perhaps even hurt Makkachin's ears, before uttering casually, "You know I've never been able to maintain this big beauty... alone."

Yuuri hums a response. Was that it? Should he press upon the 'alone' part of the comment again? Before he can further his case, Yuuri chuckles, "Mari Nee-chan has a book. I'll bring you next time we go to Hasetsu."

Oh well. Plan A sank faster than Titanic.

* * *

Victor grumbles under his breath over a pile of books. He can't seem to remember when he left the apartment _this_ messy. He has already received a coach-like scolding from Yuuri (what is up with that sudden role-reversal, he laughs and grits his teeth all the same) about his wardrobe arrangement. Right then, Yuuri is literally colour-coding some of his stuff. To be honest, he has never seen this side of Yuuri before; it is kind of sexy, and a little saddening - people with anxiety tend to have obsessive tendencies.

"Why do you have so many keys?" Yuuri asks out of frustration.

Is he supposed to actually answer that? Victor groans. Pulling a wisecrack might lead to some more lecture. Instead, he drawls out his name the way only he can, "Yuuuuri. Let it go. Let's go to the departmental store. We need some new stuff."

Yuuri mumbles, "Not done yet... are these car keys?"

He is abruptly reminded of his old Audi that hasn't been driven out of the basement for the last eighteen months and probably lay under a metre thick dust. "Ah yes," he says, bored, "I have one in the parking lot. Haven't used it in a while."

It is when another idea bulbs flicks on inside his head. "Can you drive, Yuuri?" Victor prods.

"I learned a little bit in Detroit. I have a Japanese driver's license," he chuckles, "don't really think that'll be of any use here."

"But driving is an important life-hack!" Victor declares emphatically, "The roads are long and winding and the shops are far apart and if you want to survive in this cold dreary place, you need to learn how to drive -"

"Ehh?"

"- Of course, there's no time in between the training, for me to teach you driving we need to set off really early in the morning. I don't see that happening if we live that far apart -"

Yuuri's face brightens at that. Victor's insides somersault in triumph.

"Victor, do you think you can get me an apartment in this building?!"

Close enough. He throws subtle (lame) hints at Yuuri, and Yuuri picks them off from the ground, washes them with soap, hangs them in the drier, pulls out a bat and lops them right out of the park.

* * *

These are desperate times. Half a day has passed and Victor has still not arrived at a sensible way to ask him in. He stands on top of a stool, sighing, reaching out for the topmost shelf, trying to pull out the empty cartons and aiming them across the space to the dustbin. He doesn't think Yuuri will be too happy to hear that all the food that has ever occurred in this home is either processed or takeout or has belonged to Makkachin.

Everything seems clueless until the stool tumbles and Victor comes crashing down to the floor on his butt. "Oww," he groans, rubbing his ass, a little confused.

The next thing he knows is a flurry of footsteps; Yuuri has come hurtling about to the door, a little concerned. "What - what was that noise - did you fall?"

"Yeah," he gives a dorky reply, scratching his head.

"Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

"Nah - yes, _yes_! Oww!"

To be honest, it just comes out before he can realise, and Victor isn't too proud of his evillest little plan C. Yuuri helps him up from the floor; Victor dusts his trousers, "I'm hurt, I think I sprained my - " butt? He hasn't heard of _that_ ever happening. He looks around for options, " - ankle."

His ankle seems nowhere close to being sprained, but Yuuri seems to believe him. "Here," Yuuri holds his hand and leads him to the couch in the other room, "Sit here. D'you have a hot bag? Is it hurting too much?"

Tripping and stumbling in guilt, he shakes his head. _You're evil, evil, Nikiforov._ Yuuri dashes back to the other room before he can stop him. Apparently he has already discovered the medicine drawer.

Victor sighs. He's making Yuuri worry just because he's too cowardly to ask a question. The idea of the rings, the " _Please be my coach until I retire!"_ \- all came from Yuuri; and it eventually dawns that Victor is shockingly bad at what Yuuri was so good at.

Victor clenches his fists, resolute. Once Yuuri appears at the door, he'll take him by surprise, kiss him and pop the question.

It doesn't take a lot of time. Victor calms his throbbing heart. "Yuuri -"

"Victor, why d'you have so many cold medicines? It looks like a pediatrician's aid box... and I can't find anything -"

"It's because I tend to catch cold easily. Hey, Yuuri -"

"I don't remember you catching cold once," Yuuri adds innocently.

Victor groans in exasperation. "It's just in Russia. I lived alone, and I used to fall asleep on the couch and wake up without a blanket," he explains, before he attempts to swiftly move on. He's gonna do it fast; just blurt it out. It'll be like ripping off a band-aid.

"Oh... um, Victor, I was wondering..."

"Yeah?"

Yuuri fidgets with his fingers. "Um, can I - can I live here for some time? Like if it's okay and it's not too much trouble -"

His whole act with the sprained ankle slips out of his mind as he jumps to his feet and crashes his lips onto his. Dammit, how does this boy manage to beat him to a punch everytime? He looked so oblivious before. Victor wonders what flipped his switch.

"Is it okay?" Yuri asks again.

" _Da, lyubov' moya_."

* * *

Stickers on the refrigerator, Makkachin at his happiest, the apartment bustling with energy, clothes dumped over the hangers at one end and a mix of different skates lying at the other - things are exactly as Victor imagined. Once Yuuri moved in, he brought almost everything that belonged to him - two weeks in, half of it is still unpacked - the unruly luggage adds a strange colour of life to the cold rooms.

Two weeks in, and one morning Victor wakes up on the couch to realise he has missed to notice one tiny detail.

He breathes in the cold morning air, his eyes catching the glare of the sparkling snow settled at the window ledge. He checks the watch - it is 5:30 a.m. The book he was reading last night has flopped to the floor, and he was wrapped in a blanket, tucked in neatly at the ends, in a way he knew only one person can.

Never minding the lump in his throat, he gets off the couch, looks for his slippers and then tiptoes across the space to the next room. There he is, his raven-haired beauty, sleeping peacefully. Victor hops into the bed, and snuggles beside him.

"Yuuuuri..."

"Mhm," Yuuri responds, sleepily adjusting himself against the curve of Victor's body.

"Thank you."

"Your fingers are so cold..." he mumbles instead, as he clasps them together and rubs them against his.

"I love you."

"Did you mix up the laundry or something...?" he yawns, "It's a Sunday. Lemme sleep..."

Yuuri drifts off again. Victor watches him sleep. The steady rise and fall of his chest is all the assurance he needs. _Victor Nikiforov, you're so neck-deep in this love puddle._ Not that he's complaining.

"Yuuuuri..."

"Mhm...?"

"Can you teach me how to make skating metaphors?"

* * *

 **Hehe this is actually my first fanfiction for this fandom, and it was lying in my drafts for ages. I really suck at fluff so don't be too hard on me. :3**

 **But do tell me how it was! So please review ! :D**


	2. Chapter 2

**2\. A stupid argument on Valentine's Day spikes up into a full blown contest of who can annoy the other one more.**

* * *

It's a cold spring evening at St. Petersburg, and Yuuri is half-running along the pavement, glancing at his watch, juggling his belongings, checking his phone and trying to locate a silver head of hair amidst the crowd, all at the same time. It is a busy night, the streets are lit with pink bulbs and heart signs, restaurants have put up their Valentine's Specials boards out, one of which Yuuri almost knocked over being in ungodly hurry.

Finally he finds him, leaning against a lamp post, hands shoved into his pockets, and earphones on, spaced out. Yuuri checks his watch. 6:15 p.m; he has made it in time. He breathes out, panting, "Victor!"

He is greeted with a pout and dramatic droopy eyelids from the Russian man that tells him something is wrong. What, what is it? Yuuri panics. Did the stalls run out of popcorn? Did the wind blow and he caught the reflection of his receding hairline against the glass? Did he custom order a card and they spelled his name with a 'k'?

"It's over, Yuuri. You're late. It's over."

"Huh? You texted me it's on 6:30."

"It was on 5:30."

What? Yuuri rechecks for the zillionth time. Yes, the capslocked over-exclaimed studded with emojis - _**LA LA LAND AT 6:30!**_ \- still exists. Oh well, he guesses they both made a mistake. That, however, still doesn't explain why Victor is making that face.

"It's over," Victor utters again, as if they have missed the last flight out to space and are left alone on an apocalyptic earth.

"..."

"I waited so long for you."

Yuuri would've apologised, but he fails to see how any of it is his fault. He knocked into three people and ran over a restaurant's specials board and its hour worth of earnings just to reach here, for crying out loud. "But- but you texted me. See!" He shoves the screen at Victor.

"But then my call balance ended and I mailed you the timings!"

It twinges on a nerve of annoyance. "Mailed me? Am I supposed to check my mail every five minutes?"

Victor flicks his silver hair aside, buckling up for battle. "Don't turn this on me."

Okay, now why is _he_ getting angry? Yuuri suggests as a semi-peace offering, "You could've WhatsApped me."

Victor, his cheeks flushed, rejects it, "I said don't turn this on me!"

"Then who should I turn it to, the one who has been forgetting to take out the New Year's lights from the balcony since a month?" Yuuri folds his arms adamantly. To be honest, it just comes out; he wonders if it's a low blow at Victor. Well, Victor called for it.

Victor presses his lips together, as if he is to retort, then backtracks when the reminder of the one-month pending task strikes him, "Hey, hey, you know I forget stuff, _you_ were supposed to put a note on the refrigerator."

"FYI, there are fifty already."

"... You sent back Dora."

And this is how Victor finds the world's thinnest argument. "You - _what_? Now who is Dora?" Dora the Explorer? By Victor Nikiforov standards, nothing can be impossible.

"The cute furry monkey I brought? You don't even remember..." He flicks at his hair again, as if that action is counting up Yuuri's record of offenses.

"That simian was an exotic illegal, and we'd be in jail if we're caught puppying it." And when did he even name it?

"But it was so cute!"

"It was literally humping everything on sight!"

"Still. Cute."

"Oh dear God."

"You don't love me anymore."

There it is. Victor's final weapon. It could've been effective if Victor hasn't already used it three times this week. Yuuri sighs, his shoulders slumped, as he watches Victor hang his head, whining, and strut ahead, the hem of his overcoat dancing behind him.

Yuuri huffs out fog. "...Why are you so _extra_."

* * *

They don't talk as they walk together, hands to themselves, pretending to be absorbed in their own thoughts. Yuuri, however, tries to steal a few glances at Victor. Is Victor _mad_ mad, or joking mad, or petty mad? He has no idea. He grits his teeth. If this is how it's going to be, Yuuri won't break the ice either. Like seriously, who checks their mail?

"You don't even have your accounts synced," Victor grumbles out of the blue. It is slightly creepy because it almost looks like Victor read his thoughts and responded to it.

"Can we drop this now?"

"Like we dropped the movie?" With that heart-shaped bitch-you-ain't-shit grin. Why must he be so savage?

"... _Baka_."

" _дурачка_."

So he is petty mad. Yuuri low-key glares at him. They hail a cab, and the moment the cab halts, Victor pounces over and reaches in, sliding to the other side.

"I get the window seat," he declares.

Yuuri shuts the door behind him, and gives back a dead, bored stare.

"You do realise there are two people and two windows, right?"

As the engine starts up, the taxi driver is slightly alarmed, partly because he hasn't noticed until then that two sports celebrities have climbed into the back of his cab, and partly because even he can cut the tension between them with a butter knife.

Yuuri checks his continuously blinking phone. _Wow_ , he narrows his eyes at his fiancé who is either fiddling with his own phone or gazing out of the window, _he isn't talking to me but that isn't stopping him from sending me pick-up lines._

"I'm sitting right next to you," Yuuri tries. As expected, there is no response. Verbal that is. Then his phone beeps again.

 _From: Victor_

 _Feb 14_ _18:46_

 ** _It's my Valentine's Day stash._**

"..."

Another beep.

 _From: Victor_

 _Feb 14_ _18:47_

 ** _I'm still mad._**

* * *

As soon as they open their apartment door, Victor darts in to hug the waiting poodle, who hops ahead and wags its tail, woofing. Victor shoves his shoes aside, skips his foot on the rug before he leaps in to cuddle the dog, leaving Yuuri behind to order up his mess after him.

"We missed it, Makkachin," he begins, again with that dramatic air, "we missed the movie."

 _Jesus Christ, Victor, he's gonna think you're coming back from somebody's funeral._ It is kind of adorable, and Yuuri wants to laugh, but to maintain the sanctity of the fight, he keeps it to himself. Instead, Yuuri pats on the poodle's head even as it lets out a confused purr at the other owner embracing it like there is no tomorrow.

As they progress towards dinner, it turns out since he hasn't received the unrequited apology from Yuuri, _petty_ Victor is in no mood for romance but all-out revolution. He passes on with washing the dishes, puts on an unfunny, loud sitcom, and fake-laughs along. If that isn't enough, he blasts that one Russian earworm song that Yuuri absolutely abhors on the speakers.

 _Not again._ Both the canned laughter and the song grate on Yuuri's nerves. Not only does he find the earworm song stupid, it tends to get stuck in his head and since he doesn't know the language he keeps making up nonsensical words and accidentally sing aloud in front of people, embarrassing himself. This nightmare fuel is _so_ not he wants to hear the last thing before going to bed.

"Can you turn it down a notch?!" He yells from the bedroom at Victor, who is huddled on the couch.

Next thing Yuuri knows is the song looped and volume turned ten bits up and a voice trying to reach him over the noise, "Bite me!"

"Ugh," Yuuri smashes his face against the pillow, fingers into his ears. _You want to be petty, boy? Let's be petty._

* * *

Victorwakes up next morning at the sight of the sunlight trying to peep in through the gaps of the closed windows. He turns on his stomach and drowsily reaches out for his fiancé; Victor is usually a morning person but last night he went too far and too late trying to annoy the crap out of Yuuri - and now it's taking him substantial effort to keep his droopy eyelids up. Also something smells good. Like, really good.

Suddenly, he snaps into consciousness on finding the other side of the bed empty. _Yuuri's awake already?_ Before him? That hardly happens. Or maybe Victor overslept. Or maybe... maybe Yuuri took offence? Oh, no no no. Victor was only joking around. Did Victor go too far? He hopes not.

(A far-fetched image of Yuuri packing off his luggage and setting off to Hasetsu swims over his head and he feels his throat letting out a pterodactyl screech of panic on its own.)

But packing won't smell this good. This smells like... like egg and fried pork and... _katsudon_! Ah, so finally, Yuuri is apologising. God bless his _vkusno_ ways.

Victor jumps upright, puts on his slippers, and hops into the shower as if all his fatigue from last night has been washed away. He changes into his training clothes before flouncing into the living room, his expectant nose sniffing its way ahead, following the delicious scent. There he is - Yuuri - in the kitchen, setting the table for breakfast. Victor's smile widens. But, wait, wait a minute -

There is katsudon - shimmered and authentic, yes, but only on one side of the table. Victor's side has something else - a pork and egg sandwich - basically a blander, less-glamorous version. Victor wasn't on constant vigilance and got himself bluffed. Yuuri knows Victor can't reject it or he shall starve. Neither can he cook to save his life. The fight is still on and this is how Yuuri gets the revenge. So _not_ vkusno.

"Makkachin," Victor scratches the dog rubbing against his leg while low-key glaring at Yuuri, "tell him he's cruel. Cruel."

"Makkachin, tell him you reap what you sow." Yuuri is poised. And smirking. To himself.

Victor bites into the sandwich. It's really good, but watching someone having katsudon right before his eyes, hurts. He grumbles, "Makkachin, tell him he shouldn't have these pork cutlet bowls unless he wants his abs turn into flab."

"Makkachin, ask him what shampoo he uses since I found a bunch of silver hair clogging the shower drain last night."

The spoon drops on the plate with an almighty clunk even as Victor gasps and clutches his shirt. He thinks he is having a seizure. _M-more hair_?

~ _Katsuki_ _Yuuri chokeslams Victor Nikiforov. Katsuki - 1 Nikiforov - 0 ~_

* * *

Yuuri has some katsudon left for Victor in the refrigerator but Yuuri isn't going to tell him anytime soon unless he discovers it for himself. To be totally honest, he has been slightly brimming with pride since Victor hasn't been able to get back at him after that strike in the morning. The meanest thing Victor has done is occupying Yuuri's usual locker so he has to go look somewhere else for space.

He has to shove his knuckles into his mouth to stop the giggling and look stony everytime Victor takes a break from the ice to just swoop in front of the mirror and worriedly glance the back of his head and see if more strands have fallen.

"What is with him today?" Yurio raises a confused, judgmental eyebrow.

"It's like some ghost spider is hanging off his back but disappears everytime he comes to the mirror to check," says Mila. That is a nice analogy... and maybe a potential prank?

Yuuri wants to ask Yurio to casually observe and tell Victor if he's starting to look like Yakov by the day, but refrains thinking Victor will not be able to withstand that trauma.

"Victor Nikiforov's school of theatre," Yuuri tells them. Yurio is surprised at how sincere yet sassy Yuuri sounds.

The training is tiring and relentless, and due to higher stamina, Yuuri, and the power of teen anger and utter competitiveness, Yurio, are the only two people to remain at the rink by the end. Yuuri huffs at the side, finally putting up, his legs somewhat numbed from practice. In any case, he _has_ to put up now, or else Yurio won't stop either and faint on the ice again.

Yuuri kind of envies but is almost always awed at how perfection comes so naturally to Victor - the born genius that he is, he doesn't have to struggle and repeat again and again, so at the end of the day, when Yuuri is literally crawling out of the rink, he's usually on a seat, cheering, sipping on Gatorade. Except today he's -

"That's my spot," Yuuri declares. It has been, yesterday, everyday for the last two months.

"Inertia," Victor wisecracks. Six hours have passed and Yuuri can tell he's still insecure about the hair thing from the morning.

"Oi, Yurio!" Yuuri calls out.

" _Tch_ ," his fifteen-year old namesake is never happy about that extra "o". However, he still turns. "What?!"

"Tell Victor I love him but he's a massive idiot."

"Gross, tell him yourself."

"We're fighting."

Yurio's jaw tightens and he looks as if any moment he might untie one of his shoes and throw it at them. He clenches his teeth and seethes through each word.

"You are sitting on his lap."

* * *

Yuuri thinks they should end the war now. It's late in the evening, and he's flicking the pages of a book, not a single word registering in his brain. Victor has gone out to take Makkachin for a walk. He wonders when he'll return. Maybe Yuuri should tell him he's sorry about today. Should he? Victor understands it was a joke, right? Even though he behaves like a goofy airhead, Yuuri knows how perceptive Victor can be. He _should_ know.

There is a noise at the door and Yuuri knows he's home. Yuuri's shoulders stiffen; it is an odd moment, and he is mentally scrolling through ways in which he can make it up to Victor for the past two days.

Victor enters the room slightly jogging. He seems happy, but that doesn't stop him from ignoring Yuuri's existence. He walks up to the stereo and puts on a playlist. _What is this supposed to be_ , Yuuri straightens his glasses, _background score for the silent tension in the room?_

"What... are... you doing?"

Yuuri blurts out, and then wishes he had never straightened his glasses (right now, his jaw drops so low his glasses jerk down to the bridge of his nose). First the overcoat, then the scarf, then the sweater... Yuuri knows what Victor is doing.

 _Oh, no. No. Stop. Stop stripping._

Suddenly, it seems like a bad thing that Victor knows what pleasures Yuuri in bed. Victor is unbuttoning his shirt now; he maintains an unapproachable wall between them - of course he does, this is just to seduce Yuuri and wreck him, and get back for the morning, and not for anything more... consequential. That slow, aching peek at those muscular abs...

 _Why is this turning me on?_! Yuuri gazes so hard into the book it seems he is trying to bore a hole into it. His collar has heated up, and there is an urgent need to fan himself, but he can't move an inch because that'll mean he has backed into a corner. Meanwhile, something else is moving. _Oh, no_. Something that's out of his control.

He has lost. He has been defeated.

~ _Victor Nikiforov gets back up and powerbombs Katsuki Yuuri. Katsuki - 1 Nikiforov - 1_ ~

... And now Victor is naked.

~ _Katsuki - 1 Nikiforov - 2 ~_

Victor stands in full naked glory right in front of him, his muscles almost glistening against the dimmed lamp light. Should Yuuri get naked too? No, no. That'll mean falling for the bait; he knows Victor will say he was only stretching or something and then casually move on to the TV, making Yuuri look like a complete idiot for apparently having 'misread' him. But what if...

By some stroke of luck, that Russian earworm song pops up again and breaks the moment, and Yuuri's already frustrated head explodes.

"You know what, I've had it with you!" It comes out a little louder than he expects, even as his voice shakes, "One of us is not sleeping here tonight. So - so, s-since I came first, _and_ did the dishes - just take whatever you need for the night and go to the couch. And I - woah, _hey_!"

Before Yuuri can finish what he thinks is his speech of intimidation, Victor marches up to him and scoops him up in his arms, and without a word, walks out of the room. "What are you doing?" Yuuri is slightly panicky, but Victor doesn't reply. Instead, he dumps him like a sack on the couch.

"Huh?"

" _You_ are all I need for the night," Victor joins in on the sofa beside his fiancé, snuggling against his warmth.

Yuuri has to chuckle this time, "Cheesy."

Victor kisses him on the lips, "Happy belated Valentine's, love. And we have something due." And he's promptly ready for it, buck naked and all.

Yuuri sometimes feels like the luckiest guy ever. He strokes his silver hair affectionately, then breaks into a laugh, "Hey, you got good at the metaphor thing, no?"

* * *

 **Apologies because this was supposed to be fluff but turned into borderline crack, lol. Inspired by a set of tweets and memes.**


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